


An Evening In The Life

by Anoke



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Blood and Gore, Gen, Mild Gore, No Plot/Plotless, Summer Graves, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:33:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25579642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anoke/pseuds/Anoke
Summary: Geralt gets paid for a very gross fight and has a bath.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 57





	An Evening In The Life

It was days like this when Geralt wished that his enhanced senses came with enhanced _tolerance_ to the smells and sounds (and sometimes tastes) assaulting him.

He'd just finished clearing out a spectacularly noisome group of ghouls and alghouls that had been feasting on a too-shallow mass grave from some stupid local war. He'd been flung into the pile of decaying bodies a few times during the fight, against twenty of the beasts, so he was covered in literal rot in addition to the usual blood and entrails, and his stupid _fucking_ nose meant that he was about ready to die just to get away from the smell. What was more, the grave was too large for him to burn everything there.

He was fairly sure a human would have had several vomiting fits and wound up with enough mucus in their nostrils to dim the fug, but he didn't get _that_ either. Of course, a single human would have died in the fight, so they'd be beyond caring.

He _knew_ his nasal capabilities were at least on par with a good hound's, but unlike the dog he retained the all-too-human disgust for certain scents. He bathed every chance he got, of course, but being on the Path meant no guarantee of anything, much less something as luxurious as regular bathing. He actually didn't mind horse smell, which was a damn blessing for when his own sweat had been grating on his perception for days.

The trip back was going to be tough.

Roach didn't shy as he got within scenting range, but that was simply a testimony to what the poor mare had been though already. He debated trying to clear off some of the miscellaneous semi-fluids coating him before he returned to the castle of Baron whomever, but ultimately decided he'd prefer not to have to burn more than one set of clothes, and anything he put on before he spent an hour with the strongest soap he could get his hands on was going to be impossible to keep. He may even need a whole damn new saddle. His sword sheaths and, more importantly, the swords themselves, were cleaned and cared for—those would never be neglected—but everything else would have to wait.

It was, in fact, an absolutely miserable ride back. He didn't dare stop at any water source to try and get some of the worst off—he'd probably poison the damn thing.

Everything had mostly dried by the time he reached the town and the castle. People fled in the streets, as was to be expected. When he reached the inner curtain wall of the castle, one of the younger gate guards actually threw up when he got in human scenting range.

Another, visibly sweating but able to hold back his gorge, said "I believe the Baron would not be offended if you took some time—"

"As many buckets of water and squares of canvas as can be reasonably spared, nearest trough, and the strongest soap you can lay hands on," Geralt said through gritted teeth. "And several changes of water."

"Of course," the guard said, and shooed the still retching youth through the gate, possibly to procure the items or maybe just to warn people.

It took, in fact, almost three hours. He'd started by stripping himself and removing Roach's tack, piling the leather and cloth separately—cloth for disposal, leather to try and save. 

A child, probably a stableboy, had approached. They stood near but not too near the piles of belongings he'd left. 

"Ah. Master Witcher, would you like these cleaned…?" they'd asked.

Geralt had debated internally for a second. "Keep my saddlebags with my horse, but if you've someone willing to try saddle, reins, and armor I won't say no. The clothes are beyond saving."

The child had nodded and gathered up saddle and reins first, trotting off to the stable.

Geralt started by rinsing as best he could with several buckets and rough canvas, and when he at least didn't have any visible gore on him had used another two buckets to get bits of viscera out of his hair. He often asked himself why he didn't just cut all of his damn mane off, but it all came back to his wanting one stupid affectation. 

Then came the trough and the soap. After he'd used about half the chunk they'd given him, he'd cut through enough of the stench to notice that they hadn't given him tallow soap—this was made with an oil extracted from plants. Someone had likely raided the Baron's stores for this.

He took advantage of the pause to change out the water in the trough and used half of the rest of the soap in his hair, before finishing it off with another full-body scrub.

Geralt hauled himself out of the trough, emptied it, and patted himself as dry as he could with the last scraps of canvas. He still, to himself, smelled strongly of rotting corpses, but it probably wouldn't be enough to cause a vomiting fit in the Baron and also probably wouldn't be enough to keep him from getting a room and a hot bath and more soap at an inn in the town, which was good enough for now.

He pulled his second (now only) set of clothes out of his saddlebags and got dressed, nodding to the guard who'd been standing upwind watching him when he was done. The man led him into the keep and to the small audience chamber, where the Baron was waiting.

The Baron's nose wrinkled but he didn't express any other disgust, which told Geralt he'd guessed right about how tolerable he was to human noses. He'd had enough experience that most of the time he could judge, but it had been possible that he'd just gotten used to the stench.

"Ah, Witcher," the Baron said. "I take it this means that the necrophage problem has been taken care of?"

"I killed all the ones I found in the area, but you're going to get more, fast, if you don't clean up the mass grave they were feeding on."

The Baron blinked. "Mass grave?"

"Several miles into the woods to the southwest, undoubtedly from the war you were having a month back. The bodies weren't buried near deep enough."

"I see," the Baron said, clearly concerned. "I will send men out as soon as I may."

"If you can spare cloth and scented oils for masks, you may wish to. The smell is…" Geralt let his mouth twitch, and saw the Baron rub at his own nose.

"Understood. My steward will give you your payment."

Geralt nodded. The Baron at least seemed like he was going to fix the problem of the mass grave, which was better than most nobles he'd encountered. Of course, the frenzied ghouls had also been attacking peasants who would be needed to bring in the harvest of his fields, so he had a practical reason as well.

Getting paid took yet more time, of course, since he had to go find the steward, then wait for him to confirm completion of the task, then draw the money—it was a pain in the ass. At least by the time he wandered back into the outer bailey Roach had been rubbed down and her tack and his armor had been cleaned. It was actually tolerable. Bless 'em.

He led her back into town, on foot this time, and found the town’s inn.

The innkeeper wasn't as restrained as the Baron.

"Gods, have ye been rolling in rot, to smell like that?" he demanded.

"Not too far off," Geralt admitted. "I'd like a room for myself and stable for my horse and, more importantly, a hot bath, a cake of soap, and if you have any strong herbs you could spare for the water… I can pay you fair for them all."

The innkeep looked about ready to toss him out, but a younger woman, perhaps the innkeep's daughter, poked her head out around his side. "We have a lot of mint. Would that do?"

"It would do very well, especially if you can get the water as hot as you can," Geralt said.

"One moment, sir," the innkeep said and pulled his daughter aside. 

"We don't _want_ a Witcher here, Calla!" he whispered angrily. He was trying to be quiet, but everyone underestimated a Witcher's senses.

"Papa, we can change him money for all the mint we're having to rip out after Ianna planted the one in the ground. We've no other good use for it, why not spend some on a bath for a Witcher?"

The innkeep grumbled but didn't object further.

"That'll be ten orens for the room, stable, and bath," Calla said to Geralt. "An extra five for two meals and a drink with each."

Geralt handed over the fifteen orens. A little overpriced, but given everything it wasn't too bad.

As she was leading him to his room, he couldn't resist commenting. "Blackberry and mint cider might be a good use for a surfeit of mint, if it's still there in the fall."

Calla started, very slightly, but recovered quickly. She said nothing but directed him into an upstairs room and hauled out a large wooden tub.

"It'll take a while to heat the water," she said.

"That's fine," Geralt answered, and sat down in the one wooden chair in the room, letting himself sprawl a little. "If I'm dozing when anyone comes up here, make sure they don't touch me."

Calla looked a little worried, but rallied. "Understood, sir."

Geralt closed his eyes.

He did doze a little; the sounds of the inn around him faded from significance, and even the smell of rot wasn't enough to keep him completely awake. Someone came up the stairs and into his room several times, but they didn't get anywhere near him, so it was fine. Only when the sharp, cool scent of menthol cut through everything else did he open his eyes.

Calla gasped a little as he sat up, a shallow but broad bucket with several lengths of cloth, a cake of soap, and a huge bundle of mint in her hands.

"Thank you," Geralt said quietly. "Do you bring dinner to rooms, or will I have to come down?"

You can have it brought up," she said, and set the bucket down on the floor.

"Understood. In three hours?" Geralt asked.

Calla nodded and left, closing the door behind her. Geralt slid the bolt into place and started undressing.

He spread all but a handful of the mint into the scalding hot water of the large tub, set the cloths and the soap—tallow this time—aside, and filled the bottom of the bucket with a couple inches of water.

Then it was just scrubbing with the soap and the smaller cloths until the water got too rank, dumping it into the gutter from the window, and starting again. When he finally stopped smelling decay under the soap, he dumped the water, got some new, and set to washing his clothes. He didn't go all the way with it, but he got everything lathered and left it to soak while he finally lowered himself into the tub.

He groaned in pleasure. The water had cooled off a little, but it was still only just this side of tolerable, which was perfect as far as he was concerned. He could _feel_ muscles unknotting in his neck and back. The mint tingled against his skin and in his nose.

The only way this could be better was if he had someone to give him a massage and wash his back and hair. Although, on second thought, he was so tired that it would probably be an absolutely terrible idea. He could never quite get over the paranoia that someone was going to try and stab him when he was too fatigued to stop them.

He sank down into the tub, nearly up to his eyes, and let his eyelids close until he was seeing though narrow slits. He couldn't bring himself to totally cut off sight when hearing was hindered and he was holding his breath, but he could get as close as he felt comfortable.

He purposely didn't keep track of time or how many times he lifted his face to take a breath as he lay there, just let himself drift. He could worry about things when dinner arrived or when the water got too cold, whichever happened first.

As it were, those things happened about the same time. He was just thinking about getting up when there was a knock at the door and a call of "Supper!"

He hauled himself up with a groan and wrapped the last bit of cloth around his waist, then opened the door slightly. A girl was standing outside with a wooden tray.

"Thank you," he said, and took it carefully from her. She nodded, blushed a little (possibly at his bare chest), and scurried off.

He maneuvered back in and shut the door again before looking at his bounty. They hadn't stinted in the slightest. Smoked eel, chicken, sorrel soup with egg, and a little loaf of dark bread, a small chunk of cheese, and a tankard of ale.

The chicken was a little tough; probably a hen past their egg-laying usefulness, but it was well seasoned. The eel and the soup were both delicious, and Geralt wasn't going to complain that the bread was filled out with beans. The cheese went well with the bread, and the ale was a bit like porridge, which served Geralt better than the stuff people made just to get drunk on. He ate it all and honestly could have demolished another four like it, but meeting the demands of his appetite would have to wait.

He could get by on amounts of food meant for normal humans for a long time, but he disliked being hungry and he disliked losing weight. He got the bulk of his food hunting, and spent coin for something other than just unseasoned meat whenever he could afford it. And he drank. A lot. Most small beers were cheaper than meals. Add that to his mutation-fueled tolerance and it was a handy shortcut to being less hungry.

He really didn't _get_ the latest trend of eating monsters. He'd seen wyvern steaks marked up to a hundred orens a meal, which just baffled. It wasn't even as if the damn meat tasted substantially better than cattle or pork. People just wanted to boast about having eaten something rare and dangerous in an inn or eating-house that charged through the nose for the privilege. Gods knew he'd eaten more wyvern meat in his time than any of those snobs, but killing and cooking the beast yourself disqualified you from the prestige somehow.

He didn't _particularly_ care—the markup, after all, meant he could sell bits of meat for more—but it was… annoying, all the same.

He shook his head, refusing to focus on the thought any further, and set the tray and dishes just outside the door before rolling into bed. Tomorrow he’d be back out on the Path, but tonight he was fed, and warm, and _clean_ , and that was more than enough for now.


End file.
